Fruit of the Month (19 page)

And on about Aransas. The wild pigs, the tall grasses. I thought Carla would appreciate the whooping, and the snorting of the pigs. But she didn't write back, not for three months, and when she did it was with no reference to my news. She wrote, “Remember the beads?” and told me Mike had tripped on one, not long after we'd left town, and had injured his wrist.

Then she wrote “Phone on Friday night and ask Mike when my plane gets in. Tell him I'm staying an extra day, and that you're looking forward to seeing me.”

And that was that. No explanation, no apology, not even money for the long distance call. And I would not do it, I would not, I would not, that is what I said to David, all night long. David was coughing that year, just a little, and I remember the sounds of that night. I won't do it—cough cough—I absolutely won't—cough—do it—cough cough.

I think now that if he hadn't been coughing, then I might not have done it, I might not have spent my resolve. Friday night came. I picked up the phone, I dialed, but Mike didn't answer, Carla did. She said, “No thank you, I already have a vacuum cleaner,” and hung up the phone. Later on I laughed about the vacuum cleaner. Of course Carla did not have one, or if she did, she never used it.

David and I moved next to Minneapolis. David's health would not allow him to make the trip by car, so he flew on ahead with Jennifer while I drove, pulling the U-Haul. We had accumulated a few good pieces of furniture, more record albums, and a decent stereo. Also the usual household goods, along with some cherished items—photos of ourselves and of neat, sensible Jennifer, one or two sturdy house plants, some pottery and other breakables, including the poor Kouvalias, wrapped up in our winter sweaters. The trip took me close to where Carla lived. I had not phoned, knowing that if Carla said she would be there, she wouldn't be, and that if she said she wouldn't, then she would and I would miss her. So there I sat, in my car outside her house, when for the very first time it occurred to me that she might not be at that house at all, she might have moved away, to another city, even to Minneapolis itself. But out I climbed, and in the vestibule I saw the same old boots, their zippers still undone among piles of sandals. It was summertime, early evening, and the door to her living room stood ajar.

I looked in and saw her lounging on the couch with Christopher Curtis, kissing. I knew it was him because he hadn't changed; he still looked too old, in his silly leather jacket and scuffed blue jeans, but no older than the last time I'd seen him. His hair had quit receding; he wore a chain round his wrist, his fingers in Carla's hair. Her hair had been cut. It was a feather cut, or in any case was meant to be, but the hair stood out in coarse, shocked tufts in which the highlights winked and glittered, like sparks in a forest after the fire, wanting to reignite.

“Carla,” I said, and stepped inside, because I didn't care. I meant to see her, talk, have dinner perhaps, and then drive through the night. I decided this on the spot. I wanted to get to David. We'd met a lady on the beach who told us it was pleurisy; she heard his terrible coughing and came on over, her pockets full of shells, and said to slather mustard on his chest.

However, it wasn't Carla, it was one of her daughters, who looked up lazily and told me Carla wasn't home, she was out on one of her tours. I did not know what this meant, exactly. Chris was grinning behind his mustache, and the daughter stood up and turned on the television. She was not as fat as Carla and moved in a sleepy, dreamy way. Behind her, the window was pocked with BB shots, a round of silent blasts. I wanted to laugh. I thought, if I wait, Carla won't come home, but if I leave, she'll be home in two minutes. I had thought I had come on a whim, but now I knew that I wanted something. Anything. Her street was lovely and familiar, with its tall, ungainly houses, its ratty lawns spilling out from cracks in the sidewalks, and not a single person in sight. So I stood in the vestibule, half-in and half-out, my face in the waning sunlight, and thought of something someone once told me. “I try not to go outside at dinner time,” she said. “It makes me lonely.”

That is how I remember my friends, if I remember them at all, in phrases and remarks that all seem to blend together as if I'd read them in a book. Someone once said, “I am not afraid of growing old; I intend to age gracefully,” which is what I think of when I take my calcium tablets. Someone else said, “You shouldn't have to wait until your hair feels stiff to wash it, you can wash it when it's still clean,” which is something I think of if my hair gets dirty. I remember the faces that said these things, but they are oddly disembodied and lifeless, as if they'd one day appeared, uttered a phrase, and dissolved. Carla was different; she had never said a thing worth saying again. I climbed into the U-Haul and followed her street to the end, then drove to the highway headed north. Later I stopped to eat, although I wasn't really hungry. I chose Howard Johnson's and sat at a high round stool at the counter, next to a candy display. My waitress, Dorothy, looked older than I was, but bouncy and keen, and didn't bother to write down my order. All I wanted was chowder and Coke, and saltines. Before the soup came I heard it, a penny someone dropped while paying at the register. It skidded on the carpet and struck the metal leg of my counter stool, with a fierce, loud
ping
.

I recognized it at once, the vagabond musical note, my long lost “Monday.” It must have followed me to dinner, from Carla's. Imagine Carla sugaring a cup of her tea, and the teaspoon striking the rim of her cup, and that note ringing out. Or one of the children (Carla's grandchildren) constructing one of those stringed instruments that children make, out of oatmeal cartons and rubber bands, and plucking the rubber band, and the first syllable of “Monday” twanging into the room.

Then Dorothy delivered my crackers, and I unwrapped the plastic and ate one whole before bending to pick up the penny. I dropped the coin on the counter and heard it again,
ping
.

And again,
ping
.

When the soup came I ate it at once, and got a hamburger as well, and ate that glancing all the while at the penny, which was smooth as it could be. I didn't touch it after a while. I left it lying on the counter along with the tip, for Dorothy.